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Amidst an Argument on Our Back Deck, My Wife and I Notice Two Slugs Two slugs. Two fat, wet thumbs
stuck to the side of our house have climbed—maestros of mucus—
from the yard’s mud slums either to mate or fight.
And since they both, as hermaphrodites,
have their dicks out, let’s figure to mate;
for to say two slugs have come to slug it out in the fashion
of phallus fisticuffs would be just childish,
to watch would make a cartoon of the moment.
So, we’ll peep. We’ll wonder at the curious
entanglement that’s overcome them:
Two slugs now locked by their barbed bollocks,
a fused bluish bloom of the basest parts.
It’s as though this embrace could conceive a planet.
What, wife, would we do? Live out our lives conjoined,
uncomfortable lovers? Or, espouse the lesson of the slug,
rise like mythical trunks above this embattled garden,
and chew off that which has us caught?
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